Come Wake Me Up, for Still Here I Be
A Crystal Forest, by William Sharp
The air is blue, and keen, and cold
And in a frozen sheath, enrolled
Each branch, each twig, each blade of grass
Seems clad miraculously with glass;
But in that solemn silence, is heard the whisper
Of every sleeping thing.
Look. Look at me.
Come wake me up.
For still here I be.
His beautiful face was ghostly white, tinged with grey. His eyes were closed, their edges embroidered with dried blood. Purplish-grey shadows, reddish-brown with new and old bruises, painted the hollows under his eyes. His hair – his silky golden hair that she had dreamed of combing her fingers through so many times – was dirty, matted. Infested with lice, splayed on the coarse linen pillow of the hospital bed. Clotted, congealed blood covered the tip of his eyebrow, and the sides of his nose. A cruelly stark contrast to his pallor.
His lips were dry and cracked, the remnants of his pain still etched on them – God, the same lips she had kissed so passionately and desperately, long ago on a springtime night, of sandwiches and wine and Sybil's midsummer ball in London – those lips were now mercilessly shrunken and lifeless.
His forehead was unmarked, only a prominent line stretching across its benign expanse, the marks of life and years and pain left upon it.
His cheeks and neck were flecked with bloody scratches; dark red scars that told of the hell he had been through for four unforgiving years; thick, wet, unhealed smears and trails across his darling face; wet blood coated the opening of his right ear. And yet, he looked so calm, so peaceful, so perfect, he might have been sleeping if not for the wounds that crowned him. In her eyes, it was a badge of his courage, his bravery, but oh – he didn't deserve it, any of it. Matthew Crawley deserved to be cherished and loved and adored; and it was she who had driven him to this, all those years ago. She had trained herself not to think along this dark track any more than she could help; because it seemed to invariably produce the effect of physical pain cleaving her breast in two.
His chin, and all the way down his neck, was speckled with stubble; days-old, now; mixed with the marks of maroon; his torso had been viciously slashed and scarred all over with crimson and purplish-blue bruises when she had washed him with every last bit of tenderness and gentleness she possessed; and oh God, he was hurt¸ and it broke her heart.
She hadn't left his bedside from the moment he'd arrived, save to fetch whatever Sybil told her to – ointment, wet towels, warm water, antiseptic. She doubted she'd ever run back and forth, fetching and carrying, in all her life. But she had done it willingly, and would do much more, for Matthew's sake. Because – oh, because – she was in love with him.
She was still seated by him now, his large, broken hand cradled in hers. She could feel ridges and veins under her fingers, the unnatural roughness hewn into it by Flanders mud and cold and wielding a gun – but no amount of harshness and pain in the world could – or would – ever have the power to make his hands ungentle in their texture and touch.
She knew he was still in that black void between sleeping and waking; unaware that he was back where he belonged, not on unfamiliar French soil that had for so long become his perversely normal existence. Every hour and every day since 1914, she had prayed to a God she barely believed in, begging only that her darling be kept out of harm's way. Loving him had become a part of her, body and soul; and now her worst fear had been realised at last – no, she chastised herself, she had imagined things far worse than this. He was alive, and breathing, and here, and for that she was grateful.
Her eyes lingered upon his battered body, his cracked visage, unable and unwilling to fix upon anything else in the room. He held her gaze as he held her heart.
Probable spinal damage … it could mean anything … she had next to no medical knowledge, but she dearly, desperately hoped that Matthew wouldn't be subjected to what she thought he might – please, God, hasn't he been through enough?
If she could, she would have kissed every inch of the scarred skin, imprinted her love upon every bruise and wound and bloody mark; engraved her devotion on every part of his face, down his neck and chest … soothed his pain even though her own heart bled with mingled adoration and almost unbearable sorrow, to see the one person she loved, trusted, cared for most in the world, in this state. But she could not – she had no right even to fantasise about it. He was betrothed to another – a kind, sweet, innocent girl who hadn't shattered his heart – unlike her, who had hurt him and rejected him and dangled his affections upon the stick of her delay. She did not deserve Matthew Crawley.
He couldn't hear her, she knew that. But she had to speak to him, beg him to come back, for his bright, extraordinarily piercing eyes to lock with hers once more. Just one more time.
So she did – using neither lips nor voice, but the wordless language of her heart's beating, thrumming love for him that had become its own articulation.
Matthew, she called silently.
Are you in there, my love? Please, Matthew, the doctor says you're alive. I've never fully appreciated before how beautiful your eyes are – my darling, please look at me … I'll do everything I can to alleviate the agony I can't begin to imagine that you have been put through …
Do you know how much I love you, Matthew? I broke your heart, I know, and if you could only fathom how much I've tortured myself and still hate myself for what I've done to you – Matthew, I wish I could tell you what a wonderful, wonderful man you are, and what I coward I am, and why I didn't accept you even though I wanted to – I played with your affections, crushed you – and I'm so, so sorry. It breaks me over and over to know that you've engaged yourself to Lavinia – she deserves you and I don't – but I'd be happy just to have you in my life, darling. I want you to be happy, even if it's not with me.
I'd do anything in the world for you, Matthew.
I love you.
At that moment, his lip twitched. Hardly daring to believe it, Mary was jolted out of her internal monologue, leaning closer to him, her heart pounding with affection in her chest as she quickly released his hand, settling them on his blanket.
Matthew's eyes fluttered, and opened just a fraction, then more and more by degrees.
He had woken up.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought. Reviews make my day :)